


without knowing how.

by maryjanewatson



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryjanewatson/pseuds/maryjanewatson
Summary: It was supposed to be a clean up mission. But then he showed up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is what I imagine [bucky](https://i.imgur.com/7HAzgVf.jpg) and [nat](https://i.imgur.com/56FzUV7.jpg) look like in the fic.
> 
> also, pretend they're all speaking Russian in this.

Kiev, 1994

Natasha’s reflection in the rusted, cracked mirror betrayed no emotion.  
  


Her hands were steady as she handled the blunt scissors, hacking at her long, crimson hair, symmetry be damned. The shoulder-length cut was never meant to be even, anyway. Not for this mission.

  
She smudged black eyeliner on her eyelid and under her eyes with a finger, powdered her face a couple of shades too light, and messily applied her dark lipstick as a finishing touch before stepping out of the bathroom, looking like a different person than when she had walked in.

  
The job would be complicated. She’d been tracking down crime lords since the fall of the Soviet Union a few years before, having finally managed to locate the top tier of one particular gang, and her extermination job was about to begin. It would be a lot easier to start killing from the top down to avoid any runoffs, but this boss had also been part of the KGB, and knew by heart everything Natasha could attempt doing. She had to find a way to catch him off guard.

* * *

Bucky sat in a dimly-lit room, sweat gathering in the back of his neck. One of his superiors had a gun pressed tightly against his forehead, a finger brushing the trigger. It was supposed to be some kind of test, to check If Bucky would flinch. With every shot of their Russian roulette game, Bucky felt his stomach sink to his feet. The empty rounds were running out.

  
Ever since the fall his handlers had been getting more erratic, and it was becoming increasingly hard to pretend to be stoic. The last time he showed signs of his programming starting to crack, he was put in a cryogenic chamber that froze his body but kept his mind awake for months. He’d sooner kill himself than go through that again. 

  
His escape plan was nearly finished, anyway. All he needed was a window.

  
“What the hell is going on here?!” A voice boomed, but the hand holding the gun didn’t move.

  
“Just a little game, boss,” someone replied, chuckling.

  
Bucky curled his hands into fists and his nails dug into his palm, trying not to give his apprehension away.

  
“Well, cut it out. The asset has cost us a great fortune and I will not have him perish because of some little boys’ dumb idea of a game.” The first man ordered, his voice menacing.  
  
The men in the room huffed and puffed, but complied, each going back to their bunks. Bucky stood, waiting for an instruction.  
  
“Dismissed.” Said the commander, impatiently, but not before taking a long look at him with narrowed eyes.  
  
Bucky nodded dutifully and walked out. Something didn’t feel right. 

* * *

Getting into the exclusive, underground club wouldn’t be hard if she could sneak in, but Natasha needed to make sure she was seen by the bouncers. She waited in line with everyone else, and even made a little scene when it looked like she’d be denied entrance, but she eventually got in, letting everyone get a good look at her.

  
She sat at the bar and ordered herself a drink just to keep busy while her eyes scanned the place, looking for her target.  
  
That night's plan was quite simple: while people were busy dancing and distracted by pretty women on their laps, Natasha would slip a dose of C-2, a Soviet-made drug that could not be detected post-mortem, into the drink of Semyon Vashchenko—a top __vor v zakone__ —and he’d be dead within 15 minutes. She’d then stay until the club emptied, maybe make out with one or two people, and her alibi would be guaranteed by witnesses, should it ever be questioned.

  
The drug had fallen out of use after Stalin’s death, but a handful of vials could still be found at certain installations, and Natasha stole handfuls of it when she defected. The appeal of the substance, other than the speed of death, was that it made the victim calm and silent so no attention would be brought to the scene until it was too late.  
  


* * *

Of all the assignments he was sent on, Bucky hated these the most.  
  
Playing bodyguard to gross, drunk crooks that did nothing but talk about drugs and hire minors to strip for and sleep with them in return for them not murdering their entire families in cold blood made his stomach churn. He could smell the cold sweat of the girls’ desperation every time a hand reached for their legs, and it was all he could do not to leap across the table and rip those disgusting fingers clean off one by one.  
  
Those nights were mostly boring if he managed to ignore everything his superiors were doing and just focused on the surroundings, though. He could almost doze off in his seat, if the boisterous laughter around him ever ceased.  
  
Part of his training was to read people with only a glance, and Bucky excelled at that. He could tell where someone was from, how they were feeling, and the last time they took a shit before they could even notice him looking. He liked honing that skill in moments of stillness, and he was often so good at it that he'd be able to predict the person's next move, down to which hand they'd adjust their hair with.  
  
Which is why it unsettled him when he caught himself staring at a redhead by the bar for nearly five minutes and came up empty.  
  
__Who the hell was she?__


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha spent a while flirting with the bartender before she got an opening to Vashchenko. He needed to be drunk enough that he wouldn’t even look at what was in his glass, and surrounded by girls instead of his own people.

When it was finally time, she slithered among the crowd and came up behind the VIP area. She pushed a girl in front of her with a little too much force, causing her to fall on her hands and knees, her miniscule skirt riding up and showing her vulva from behind, to Vashchenko’s delight. The girl laughed awkwardly and looked over her shoulder in a sorry attempt at sexiness, and he reached forward to rub two dirty fingers into her, Natasha taking her cue.

By the time the girl was on Vashchenko’s lap, Natasha was already back at the bar, stealing a kiss from the bartender.

She hoped he wouldn’t be able to taste the bile rising up her throat.  
  


* * *

  
Bucky only noticed something was wrong when Vashchenko already had the drink to his lips. 

Without hesitating, he stood up and rushed to the bar, grabbed Natasha’s wrist and dragged her out. He slammed her back against the exit door by the alley, his face an inch from hers.

“What the fuck did you put in the drink?!” He growled, not letting go of her arm.

Natasha couldn’t react if she wanted to. She opened and closed her mouth so much she looked like a gasping fish. Her legs felt like jelly, and she knew he was the only thing holding her up.

It was _him_.

* * *

“You have to learn how to be quieter, you know.”

Natasha giggled into her pillow, her nose scrunching in a way that made her look much younger than her years.

“I’m serious. They’ll eventually hear you, and what then?”

“Let them hear me,” she replied, inching closer and pouting by way of requesting a kiss, which she got. “Maybe you should be worse at it, then I wouldn’t be making any sounds.”

The two figures entangled themselves underneath the sheets for the rest of the night, promises they knew they couldn’t keep falling off their lips into one another’s, holding on to each other’s bodies like a lifeline, Natasha’s moans muffled by a metal hand.  
  


* * *

“Answer me!” Bucky demanded, breaking Natasha out of her reverie.

She easily slipped from his grip without a word, and started walking down the empty alleyway towards the street, her heavy combat boots the only noise on the street. There was no time for reminiscing, her cover had been blown the minute she disappeared from the club before she was meant to, and she couldn’t allow herself to be found suspiciously leaving the scene of the crime.

Bucky caught up with her and made a move to grab her again, but Natasha escaped with an ease that left him incredulous.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go back in there,” she said, not bothering to turn her head back. “You let the big guy die right in front of you, that’s not something they’ll forgive.”

She wasn’t going to say anything, she really wasn’t. The mission was more important than whatever sentimentality she still held in her heart over old times. But, for once, her heart was stronger than her will, the words stumbling out of her mouth before she could even think to stop them.

Bucky’s blood ran cold at the words, his mind reeling. He didn’t know what to concentrate on first, the fact that she knew he was nothing but a henchman to Vashchenko, that he’d be punished for letting him die, or that she was able to unleash herself from his hold so effortlessly. 

“There’s a safehouse,” she started, not waiting for him to speak up. She didn’t need to finish the sentence before Bucky had made up his mind. He could hear a commotion coming out of the bar, a marching of angry steps that were no doubt looking for the perpetrator, and for him as well.

Natasha kept walking in a normal pace for a block longer before ducking into unlit streets, easily climbing over fire escape ladders onto rooftops and back down again, moving as gracefully as a cat. She knew, without looking over her shoulder, that Bucky wasn’t too far behind. He lacked her grace but he, too, moved smoothly, landing on the tip of his toes to avoid any sound.

As the noise of the gang trailing them dispersed, Natasha dove into another alley, pushing a dumpster out of the way of a trapdoor barely big enough for an adult, and jumped in. Bucky pulled the dumpster over the opening after going in, and the two of them were enveloped by darkness.

“To your left, the door opens inwards.” Natasha spoke quietly. Bucky reached over and opened a door not tall enough for him to go through without bending, and walked in first.

The room was dark, lit only by a rogue streetlight outside the skylight window. It had a mattress on the floor, a wobbly wooden coffee table on one side, and one rusted steel chair. The smell of mildew in the ratty curtains burned Bucky’s nostrils, and he felt nauseous.

“You’ll need a disguise.” Natasha’s voice called from the bathroom. Bucky startled at the sound of buzzing, but it was only Natasha turning on a hair clipper. He took it from her hands and immediately started to cut his hair. He shaved the sides clean barely even looking in the rusted mirror, and left less than half an inch of hair at the top. His beard turned into a haphazard goatee.

He felt as though in a trance, mindlessly following this woman he’d never seen before. But he was looking for an out, wasn’t he? With the death of Vashchenko, the shackles would be even tighter around him, and he might not have gotten another chance to leave.

“I’ll take the left side,” Natasha said, pointing to the mattress and lying down with her clothes on, boots and all, her back to the wall.

Bucky wanted to say something. He felt the words bubbling in his chest, but he'd sooner sprout wings than be able to get them out. Part of him was still in soldier mode, not wanting to give anything away lest this be a trap. But the anxiety he felt in his bones when something went wrong during a mission wasn’t there. He didn’t feel exactly calm, either, but there was no fear in him. Something about the presence of the woman felt almost familiar to him.

He lied down fully dressed as well, nothing he’d never done before, but sleep evaded him. All Bucky could think of was how long it’d take for Vashchenko’s gang to find him, that he’d have to live on the run, and who this woman next to him was.

Somehow, though, he managed to close his eyes enough to be startled by the sun rising and shining in his face. He found himself facing Natasha, and something stirred in his mind that made him jump off the mattress into the bathroom to wash his face.

He’d woken up next to her before. He was sure of it.  
  


* * *

They spent the following day inside, letting the dust settle. Bucky kept his distance, sitting watchfully next to the tiny window. Natasha left him alone, the only interaction she dared was to offer him half of a PowerBar she made sure to open and take a bite from in front of him, to signal it wasn’t poisoned or anything.

The air was uncomfortable and seemed to get stuck on their skin. But there was also a strange type of electricity that kept them on edge, eyes flashing back and forth between one another.

Finally, as the sun started to set, Bucky spoke up through the knot in his throat.

“We can’t stay here forever.” He hoped his voice hadn’t sounded too shaky.

Natasha swallowed thickly. She knew he was right, but getting out would be difficult. Vashchenko’s men wouldn’t give up, and were probably regrouping. Natasha alone had her ways of disappearing, but it’d be harder with Bucky in tow. And she didn’t know if he’d even stay with her for the mission, or longer. She found herself suddenly glum at the prospect of him leaving.

But what the hell was she expecting? That he’d magically remember her and fall to his knees and they’d pick up right where they left off? She saw what they did to him when they were caught the first time years ago; wiping his mind was the least of his punishments. Still, a young, dumb part of her that she’d tried so hard to push down hoped, even if mindlessly, that there was _something_ left, any traces at all that she could hold on to.

She was a damn idiot, is what she was.

* * *

The next day, Natasha managed to sneak in some clothes for Bucky so he could blend in outside a bit better. In the worn-out jeans, ratty T-shirt and denim jacket he looked ready to go on stage at a grunge gig in a makeshift stage out of somebody’s garage.

She’d turned her back while he changed, her cheeks threatening to blush as if she were a teenager, though Bucky didn’t even seem to register she was even there by the way that he stripped. Any sense of modesty was ripped from you in the Red Room, and defectors—of which there weren’t many—had to relearn it on their own.

Natasha had included a gun and a couple of knives with the pile of clothes, and as much ammo as a person could carry, which in Bucky’s case was enough to take down a small army.

“Vashchenko’s men gather about five miles west of here, if we leave now we can catch them at dusk.” Bucky said, as he secured his equipment to every pocket available. “If we hit Isaev and Zima all they’ll be left are a few sorry lackeys who’ll fold the minute we push them a little.”

Natasha wanted to ask how he knew those were her plans and why he was coming with her, but she didn’t dare disturb anything. She only nodded and gathered her own weapons. Part of her still wondered if it was all a trap and if she’d be walking right into the lion’s den by following him. But it didn’t stop her.  
  


* * *

As it turned out, the job was going to be easier than expected. Without Vashchenko, all of the henchmen were at a loss of what to do, getting too caught up in in-fighting about who’d take over and who’d go out hunting the killer first. Bucky and Natasha arrived right in the middle of one of those arguments, and sneaked in easy as pie while everyone’s attentions were on the stocky Russian man bleeding on the floor from a right hook to the nose by a comrade in the room.

None of them saw the bullets coming, and afterwards the floor couldn’t be seen from underneath the pile of bodies strewn about. Bucky and Natasha worked so effectively as a team that there were no mistakes even the harshest of teachers could point out. Except for one.

“You’ve always been terrible at hiding, soldier.” A man’s voice came from behind a stack of boxes that they'd failed to investigate. It was Zima, the crony who had also trained Bucky early on. “Your heavy breathing gives you away every time, panting like a damn dog.”

Bucky turned around quick, already aiming at his former superior while Natasha circled him from the other side.

His knees felt weak on instinct and he almost gave into the urge to drop the gun and await punishment, but Natasha was faster. Before Zima could get another word in, she put a bullet in the back of his head, and he dropped to the ground with a finger caught on the trigger of his gun.

“Let’s go,” Natasha ordered immediately after, noticing Bucky’s changing expression. He lingered for a second and she worried if he’d snap, but he ran back with her without a word.

Back at the safehouse, Bucky barely waited for Natasha to close the door behind her before slamming her into the wall, his lips pressing against hers bruisingly. She didn’t even have time to react before her body melted with his, her head spinning.

The adrenaline from the fight had awaken something within Bucky that had been dormant for way too long, his body moving on muscle memory alone. But with every sigh and moan out of Natasha’s mouth, a flicker of a memory would flash in his head, almost as if he’d done this before.

Helpless to him, Natasha let herself go, her skin on fire. When was the last time anyone had touched her like that, with an almost innate reverence? No one had, except maybe Bucky himself all those years ago, when the only thing tying them to their humanity was the taste of each other's lips lingering through the nights. 

Natasha was so caught up in feeling _good_ for the first time in forever that words were slipping her lips through her sighs and moans.

“You called me James.” Bucky stopped, still pressed to Natasha against the wall. She froze. She hadn’t noticed it.

“No one’s called me that in years,” he continued in a whisper. “I think the last person to do that was…” He trailed off, not knowing what he wanted to say.

Natasha felt the unfamiliar sting of tears behind her eyes. She wanted to scream _, “it was me, I’m the only one who’s ever called you that!”_ but she knew better.

“We know each other, don’t we?” Bucky finally asked, eyes earnest like she’s never seen.

“We do.” She assented. “Or we did, anyway.”

Bucky nodded, fingers idly brushing Natasha’s hair over her muscular shoulders, but not saying anything else.

It didn’t matter, anyway. They’d found their way back to each other again. Everything else could be dealt with later.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://favorsfromkiev.tumblr.com) 🍑


End file.
